Ashes & Lullabies
by Lilac Alyssa Halliwell
Summary: Three years ago, 9-year-old Nelly Holloway disappeared. In the wake of their daughter's disappearance, the Holloway family left Vermont never to return. When Clove's grandfather is diagnosed with Alzheimer's, things change. The Holloway family can no longer ignore St. Albans' hold, and return to find there's still many loose ends yet untied. Modern Day AU.
1. Naupathia

**Chapter 1:**  
Naupathia - Seasickness

I'm leaning against the window, listening to an old Taking Back Sunday song as we pass the corner convenience store, then Capitol park, even the town square before crossing from district one boundaries into two. Despite it being a postcard-worthy, snowy day in Vermont, the mood is sullen. None of us want to be here, not in St. Albans, not where-

For the last year, our old house has been vacant, devoid of renters, and I'm starting to suspect maybe this was done on purpose. My Aunt Ebony manages the old estate, tidying up as needed and working with tenants. We're in a recession, she said, but I've been wondering if this isn't some wild plot concocted between her and grandfather to drag us back and stir up the old pot.

Our family isn't the same, hasn't been for awhile now.

As the far more desert-appropriate Tahoe comes to a stop in the snowy driveway, mom gives the old house a once-over. It's more or less the same, just... older. There's chipped paint, clutter, and trash, but the most significant change is the stale air. It's lifeless, dreary. No one's cared for it for a while now, but I have no doubt mom will begin restoration immediately. She's always been the type to mend broken things.

As I hesitantly trail up the old stairs, avoiding the broken floorboard, I brisk towards my old bedroom. At the head of the stairs is a small, sunken bedroom. It's dusty, painted a poor white that fails to hide its previous shade, a bright, bright pink. I almost peek inside, before reprimanding myself.

She'll come back. She will.

My old bedroom is dark, the light obscured by the previous occupant's apparent distaste for sunshine. That's fine. I'm not feeling too sunny myself. I flop onto the unclothed mattress, staring directly ahead to where my old Green Day poster used to hang. If you narrow your eyes enough, you can even spot the hole where I'd jammed the pushpin into the wall.

My friends and I used to put on dramatic reenactments of their music videos, before jumping onto the bed until dad would hit the ceiling with the kitchen broom.

Twelve. I'd been twelve, then. Nelly would have been-

No. Nelly _is_ twelve. She'll come back. She will.

"Clove, are you ready yet?"

In my haste, I'd completely forgotten to get ready. The day's still young, barely past 7AM, but I'm expected to arrive early today. It's three weeks into the second semester and Nero's been trying and failing to assure me that I haven't missed anything yet. He and his mother - birds of a feather.

I shuffle through my suitcase and grab the first outfit I can find. It's not impressive, but I'm not impressed myself. "Clove!" my mom screams a second time. I sigh, pocketing a pack of gum, two pencils, and my cell phone, before descending down the stairs and grabbing the 70 count notebook we picked up at Walgreens before leaving Arizona. I am not ready for this... in so many ways.

The whole city is small, so no commute is more than ten minutes, but the high school is even less, about three minutes. As we roll up, I watch as various students slam the doors to their BMWs, Ferraris, one boy even has a Jaguar, and lock their doors with a synonymous beep, before linking arms and walking excitably towards the entrance. They're not all like this, but I'm selectively observant today, especially on edge, and anything might set me off, but I'd rather evaporate into thin air than to attract any unwanted attention.

"I bet your friends are excited to see you again," Mom remarks with lackluster enthusiasm.

"Yeah, they probably are," I agree faintly.

We both know I've told no one of my return. I hop out of the car, dragged along by an invisible puppeteer to claim my schedule, books, ID, and other trivial necessities. Locker #274 is close to the library and far from everything else. It's perfect.

"Excuse me," a voice apologizes, reaching below me.

I push the textbooks as far back as I can, reattach the lock, moving to allow my neighbor access to his locker. A pair of familiar brown eyes lock on mine and I freeze. Callan Wilder.

Callan deserves an explanation. Oh, poor Callan. He deserves that much, and so much more, but... but... not now. I can't. The weight in my chest intensifies and I do the only thing I can; flee. I get lost into the crowd, avoiding the few stares of recognition, and steadily head towards my first class.

Art has always been my personal reprieve, the only part of myself that I've hung onto these past three years. While an academic setting can be limiting, it can also be enlightening. I've never been one for structure, and it's always left me in a sea of ambiguity. Some structure might be good for a change.

I take a seat, plugging in my headphones and leaning into my arms while I wait for everyone else to fill in. It's been a long few days, with rest far, few, and in between packing my life into concise little packages and psychologically preparing myself for what awaits. I grow bored after a few minutes and begin a sketch of the last peaceful moments I had before leaving Arizona.

I'd joined an old-fashioned martial arts gym, where they collected and showcased traditional, old-fashioned weapons. They were antiques, so we couldn't use them: katanas, scythes, throwing knives, but I mostly enjoyed observing the contours and patterns in the hilt of the knives, or catching a gleam of myself in the sickles. My parents would have probably shipped me off to a mental asylum had they known, but secrets have never been hard for me to keep.

Finishing the quick sketch, I inscribe the date: 1/27/2008. It takes a few extra seconds, as I fumble the date the first time, dating the year as 2007 instead of 2008. Strange that I'll be sixteen in only a week.

By the time our teacher files into the room, a heavy canvas in tow, I've mostly blocked out the chatter from the other students. "Oh, dear, I think you're the addition to our roster. Well, I'm Mrs. Frost."

My heart starts to pound as several eyes feast upon me, some discussing me in hushed whispers.

"Well, I hope we'll all be welcoming for our new student. Welcome, Miss Holloway."

The tawny-haired older woman, Wiress Frost, is about to begin the lesson, when a voice replies to her rhetorical statement a little louder than appropriate, "She's not new," he counters.

I turn to find a boy roughly my age, maybe older, with reddish-brown locks. Great, a two-Wilder-for-one bargain sale. His bright amber eyes are narrowed in on me and though he's taller, though not by much I'm amused to find, he's still got the scruffy hair and childish demeanor. He has not forgiven me, and while I get that, I'd be lying if I didn't say it hurt my feelings. So, my brain supplies, guess who hasn't broken the St. Albans' hold?

"She's come home," a voice corrects from beside him, with a light smile.

Callan. Baby-faced Callan is actually sticking up for me. He, if anyone, has the most right to be upset, and yet here he is defending me. If only you could see us now, Nelly.

"Well, welcome home, Clove," Mrs. Frost says with a smile before beginning the lesson.

The rest of class revolves around the use and manipulation of shadows in artwork. My sketches have always been casual, unprofessional, messy, and I don't know much about shadows, or any techniques really. About the only thing I do know about art is that it's a way for me to witness to the world what I've seen. Maybe, one day, it'll be a way for me to witness to the world the things I haven't seen.

After my first class is over, I walk through the hallways, again allowing myself to be consumed by the crowd, though this time my iPod can't block out the hoots, jeers, and laughs. The varsity something-or-rather team is spread throughout the crowd and throwing things to each other, while other students either chuckle to themselves or ignore them entirely, taken by their own conversations.

Right as I'm about dip out, one of the jocks yells, "Watch out!"

Before I can understand what's happening, I've turned right into the path of an incoming ball. Instinctively, I headbutt it back into the crowd. _Of course_, it's a soccer ball. I should expect no less from this town.

I rub at my head, working to prevent the oncoming headache, when a surprised voice calls out, "Clove?"

At first, I'm not sure where the voice is coming from, but my eyes and ears seem to figure things out eventually, because I look up into a pair of familiar blue eyes.

Guess Cato Elroy hasn't broken the St Albans' hold either.

* * *

**AN** - Because I'm currently working on the Unwinding Circle, I only want to continue this story if there's enough interest, so_ please review._


	2. Nexus

**Chapter 2:**  
Nexus - A bond; linked group

I'm about to say something, but it's as if all my mental processes have shut down. Luckily, the stupor breaks when someone elbows Cato out of my way and replaces him, "Little H? No way! Welcome back, babe."

Unlike Dicey Wilder, Felix has bolted up like a beanstalk. He's got at least a half-foot on me, and like Cato, is wearing a varsity jacket. I know it's a common cliche in TV shows and teen novels for high school athletes to walk around in their letterman jackets like it's the only article of clothing they own, but I sorta think that trope is just a little too tacky for 2008.

So of course, I laugh. Even though it's a laugh of lunacy, it ebbs some of the anxiety that's filled my stomach for the last ten days.

"I'm captain of the varsity soccer team," Felix informs me proudly. The way in which he says it, the black-haired senior might as well have said he'd been elected president of the United States, and right as I'm about to tell him as much, I realize the less ideas I give him, the better.

"Congratulations."

"Only say it if you mean it," he quips.

I'm torn between contrived politeness and cheap shots. I'd probably be a lot more sincere if the preceding statement had come from anyone else in the world besides Felix Grey. I'm still fashioning an old grudge, which I realize is petty, but there's no other way to behave when you're around someone like him.

I force my mouth shut and give him a thin-lipped smile drenched in sarcasm. He doesn't know how to respond to that, so he gives me an uneasy smile back. For a second, I almost feel bad; Who knows what's changed in three years?

Well, I know Cato has changed in three years. He's tall, dark, and handsome. Okay... so, maybe not dark, but he's tall and handsome, and two out of three isn't bad. He regains his balance and watches the two of us with a stoic expression on his face, as if he's just remembered that he should hate me too.

The gleam of surprise in his eyes have vanished, replaced by a cool, icy look. I think it's supposed to be intimidating, but mostly it reminds of the temper tantrums from when we were kids. "Look who reappeared as easily as she disappeared, and again without notice. At least you keep it consistent, Clove," he glares.

Okay, I'm aware that I'm in the wrong and rolling my eyes isn't exactly the best reaction, but he's so melodramatic that it's hysterical. I can't really afford to feel bad, either, because moving into town with no friends and a debt over your head is the easiest way to become a target.

"Yep," I give him an affirmation, "And now I have to disappear to class. Nice seeing you, Blondilocks."

I've turned my back to him at the this point, which I'm thankful for, because I'm now grimacing at the slip up. Why oh why did I just do that?

"Good to see you haven't lost your big mouth," he sneers, stalking off in another direction.

Felix follows behind me curiously, "Where you headed?"

"Geometry," I tell him plainly. Why is it any of his business where I'm going? Unlike Cato and Dicey, I really don't owe Felix a thing.

"You're headed in the wrong direction."

I sigh, "Felix, despite having never attended school here, I do know where the math building is." Does he honestly have to play tricks today of all days?

He pulls me back gently, shaking his head, "They remodeled the school couple a' years ago."

"Why would you want to help me?"

"Maybe, I'll tell you one day," He grins and gently pulls me along. The bell rings, signifying that I'm late, and I sigh. I really don't want to attract anymore attention. I'm not exactly a wallflower, but Cato's right. The manner in which I disappeared was just as insensitive as the manner in which I reappeared.

Nelly's disappearance had a profound effect on this town, and its inhabitants, many of which I'd never seen before she'd gone missing, really did their best to help. My family did not reciprocate even an ounce of that grace.

He drags me to the old music building, which I vaguely recognize. In elementary school, we put on a spring concert in the auditorium.

"Thanks," I mumble distractedly.

"Want to have lunch?" he asks.

The books in my arms have grown heavy, so I shuffle them a bit to ease the strain on my arms, "I'd planned on locking myself in the library and never coming out."

"No," Felix disagrees immediately. "I mean," he gives a cocky laugh, "That's no way to celebrate your first day back."

What's there to celebrate? St. Albans may be where I grew up and it may hold my most prized memories, but unfortunately (and to its great disadvantage), the most vivid ones I have left are all negative. It's just something that can't be helped.

Felix waves me off, and I'm lucky enough to snatch a seat in the back of the class. Geometry drags on, but not because I'm particularly bad at it, but because I'd rather be anywhere else but here. Also, I've always preferred algebraic math to geometric equations. At least here I get it over first thing in the morning. Back in Arizona, it was my last class of the day, often leaving me in a state of boredom-induced sleepiness.

English follows, and the assigned textbook (The Contemporary American Short Story) is an anthology of modern fiction. I briefly glimpse through it, before deciding it's a thoroughly more interesting textbook than the book I'd been assigned at my previous high school. As I enter the room, a bemused smile catches my attention, "This isn't 10th grade English, Clove."

"That's fine. Is it AP Lit?" I ask him confused.

"Since when are you type for AP Lit?" Nero jokes, pushing me onto the chair beside him.

"Since Dicey, Cato, Felix, and Kyler aren't smart enough for it," I reply bluntly. And it's true. Well, mostly so. I had a bit of a panic moment when registering for classes.

Nero gives a low whistle, "I wouldn't be too sure of that."

A few seconds later, Cato trails in after a gaggle of girls. He fails to hide a frustrated roll of eyes, before walking over to the right hand corner of the room. Before I can make any more inaccurate assumptions, our teacher walks in, waxing lyrically about the piece assigned for weekend reading, which I've yet to piece through, so of course I'm lost.

I'm ready to crawl in a hole as I think the entire morning over. So far, my processing of the day's events have all been sarcastic snipes.

"You signed up for Art, didn't you?" Nero guesses, whispering.

My sigh of exasperation is answer enough, and he adds, "So Callan saw you?"

"Least of my problems," I tell him, eying Cato and then looking back towards Nero.

"Were you expecting a better reaction?" He asks me honestly.

I shake my head, "I just didn't expect them to bombard me so fast."

Nero pretends to read through the assigned story when his tone changes, "Having you seen grandpa yet?"

Ah, yes. In my self-obsessed delusion, I'd forgotten there was a reason we've returned to St. Albans. Our family patriarch, Grandpa Holloway, has Alzheimer's. He's had it for a while, apparently, but no one told me until now. It seems to be our family trade - keeping secrets, that is.

"Poppy's okay, right?" I ask, a tremor in my words. It's crazy how much I'm willing to forgive in a crisis.

"Some days are better than others. He... he called me Brick."

A chill runs down my spine at that confession. I swallow nervously, "Sorry, Nee."

He rubs unconsciously at his nose, straining, "If I start to cry in class, knock me out and drag me away."

I grin at that, "Only if you return the favor."

The story we're assigned, 'Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?' is the tale of a spoiled teenaged girl who enjoys picking up boys at a local restaurant. One night, while her parents are away, a strange man comes to the door and synonymously threatens and goads her into coming out of the house. At the climax of the story, she gets into his convertible and her fate is left entirely up to interpretation.

As I read through the work, Nero looks up at me every thirty or so seconds, probably worried that I'm going to have a mental break, but instead, I sort of just wonder about the character. I try to substitute myself in her place and think about what I would have done if someone threatened to harm my family if I didn't come with them.

It's all so maddening, but really, honestly, the kidnapping is the least of my problems.

We get through the short exercise and spend the rest of the class playing catch up, while I try to _subtly_ fit in glances at Cato. By the way he glares at me, it's apparent that I may need to work on that. We break for lunch, and I hop around, avoiding Felix as much as I can, when he comes up to me with a grin. Sneaky bastard knew exactly where I'd be.

I'm not sure if he is trying to be nice or has something else up his sleeve, but either way, lunch with him seems like a troubling idea. His phone lights up, and he gives me a look, "That's my sister, I gotta take that. I'll be right back, okay?"

Hiding a groan, I nod. Then, I think it over for a moment, and decide that it's time I stop letting others dictate my life. So, I peek into the hallway to find him still distracted, and sneak away. As I head towards the library, hoping to catch up on my work, I come across a stunning zen garden. It's planted in herbs, azaleas, even lavender tendrils, and covered in a light layer of powdered snow.

It's beautiful.

I take a breath of the fresh air, another St. Albans quality I'm fond of, when I catch the glass placard nailed to the wall; _In loving memory of Magnilda G. Holloway_.

In no time at all, my heartbeat accelerates and I begin to shake, trying to prevent the incoming sob fest as a strong pair of arms engulf me, "I tried to warn you, H."

My thoughts are incoherent, making it difficult to piece together what's happening. "I don't..." my voice cracks, "I don't understand. Who'd do this?"

Felix doesn't answer, but he doesn't have to, because I already know, and now I'm mad. No... worse. I'm furious. I break from his grasp and stomp off, when he pulls me back, "Clove, don't."

"Don't what?" I demand.

He's torn. It's stamped across his face, but Felix has an obligation, whether as a friend or as team captain to maintain his composure, to be an unbiased third-party. Pfft. As if. The second time he tries to stop me, I ignore him entirely, not even bothering to turn back.

My search takes about ten minutes, in which I come across several unused classrooms, campus resources, and even a few vending machines. Still, I have a directive, and I will not be silenced.

After about fifteen minutes of searching, I check one last spot, and nearly scoff when I spot the two watching the snowflakes float down from the sky from the top level. I stomp up the bleachers rather recklessly in my traction-less Keds and give them a death stare.

"What?" both of them ask me in synchronous annoyance.

"Real cute, wonder twins," I glower.

Dicey crosses his arms, "We don't want to be your friend."

Okay, so that stings. A lot, actually, but I'm too spurned to care. "As if I want to be your friend!" I spit, grabbing an old bottle of Gatorade from the stand below me and throwing it at him. "In case no one ever fucking told you, 'in memory' is for people who are dead! And my sister is not dead!" I seethe, tears streaking down my heated face.

The uncomfortable silence is filled with a pathetic sob as I reach around for the closest piece of weighted trash I can find. This time, I find a can of peanuts, and prepare myself to throw it, with the full knowledge that I look like a mad woman, when I hit a misstep and slip backwards, tumbling down the aluminum bleachers to my gory death.

* * *

**AN** - I really appreciated your reviews for the first chapter. What I've been trying to do this chapter is to develop Clove's personality. I'm trying to prevent her from being Bella Swan, while also managing her angst appropriately.

Please review!


	3. Neoblastic

Neoblastic - of, like or pertaining to new growth

* * *

I'd love to say I came to and that the last twelve hours have just been some twisted nightmare caused by an ice cream binge, but luck hasn't exactly been raining down on me lately. No, this precarious situation is something I couldn't dream up in my dizziest daydreams. The ones I remember, anyways.

My father hasn't stopped lecturing me since we got in the car. My mom has tried to tell him about a half-dozen times to calm down, but once the Lieutenant has been set off, you're pretty much a dead man. You'd think I detonated a nuclear bomb and incinerated half of St. Albans, instead of being concussed and discharged within a few hours.

But, to my luck, I still have my iPod and successfully managed to sneak in an earbud through my hoodie a couple minutes back. So while he continues to rant (no end in sight, apparently), I've got No Doubt spinning me into a daze. Five or six years ago, back when I had my old purple boombox, I used to play the album on repeat.

The trees are barren now, dusted in snow, and the roads are slick. Every sight sets fire to my senses, setting the stage to an onslaught of memories I can't quite slow.

See, St. Albans is this quaint, middle America town a half hour out of Burlington. If there are two things I can count on, it's the Vermont Voltage Youth Soccer League and over-enthusiastic, over-patriotic local business owners determined to over-decorate their shops for even the most trivial holiday or occasion.

I guess you could say I'm home, but home doesn't feel like home anymore - It's like I've endured an entire lifetime, but I'm stuck on the same day. Isn't that the plot of Groundhog Day?

At some point, my father's admonitions cease, and he looks to me sharply. "Honey, are you okay?" mom asks, turning back to me from the passenger seat.

I gingerly touch the bandage plastered across my forehead. This... this isn't exactly my first rodeo. In fact, this may be my fourth or fifth concussion in the last couple years. Doctors have made it clear that I can't really afford any more, but what can I say?

Clove Holloway lives on the ~edge~

No, but really, I don't know how they expect me to make it through the rest of my life like that. You'd have to lock me up and throw away the key. Actually, wait,_that sounds like a great idea._ Can we do that? Please?

"Damn it, I have to go back to the base," dad spits, looking at a scrap of paper.

Mom waves him off, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Clove can manage."

He nods, rubbing her shoulder, "I'll be home late, Elma."

"Nothing I'm not used to," she replies with a teasing smirk and hands me the scrap of paper. "One of your friends was nice enough to collect your homework. He said he'd be home after four. Why don't you take Dicey and go collect before the sun goes down?"

"Which friend?" I asked quickly.

I don't have any friends - not here, not anymore. Pretending I do won't change that.

Mom bites her lip, probably embarrassed that she can't remember. As we walk into the house, she pauses, and looks me in the eye, "What was the name of your squad leader in Voltage little league?"

Son of a -

I drop my notebook on the couch, and shuffle back into the frost. The air is clear, the world a sight to behold. This part I don't mind so much. You can lose yourself in the heart of St. Alban.

After six or seven minutes of pacing, I'm surprised I'm not entirely frostbitten. And then the morbid regret insulates my veins.

I never said goodbye, never called, never sent so much as a postcard. I was roused from sleep one night three years ago and told to get into the car. Mom and dad had been planning it a while - to escape into the night and never return. And look where that got us.

Nelly's missing, and I can guarantee you she didn't just up and run all the way to Arizona.

_I'll take with me every single luxury when I leave. You can count on me for that and nothing more._

Fucking Taking Back Sunday.

I double check the scrap of paper, and take a sharp breath. Here goes nothing.

I knock lightly, tempted to tell my teachers that my stay in the hospital was longer than anticipated, when the door opens. I'd peg him as a visitor if he wasn't dressed uncomfortably more casual than appropriate when visiting friends.

"Clove Holloway?" the 24-year-old asks, blatantly surprised.

Please don't turn red, please don't, please don't, please don't-

Finnick looks at me expectantly. "Uh, hi-" I begin shakily, the flimsy paper in my hand wavering, "I though this was Felix-Felix Grey's" I add for as a safety measure. Finnick and Felix's older sister Annie were friends when we were kids, but who knows what's changed in three years, "house."

Amusement purses Finnick's lip and a surge of fury courses through my skin. That damn smirk must be an inheritable trait.

"You came to the right place. Come in," he beckons, running a hand through his bronze locks.

Before I have time to wonder why Felix is living with Finnick, I catch a glance of the sleeping raven-haired teen on the couch. His niece, Talia, is draped over his chest and has grown immensely, but I recognize her instantly. She has wild, long black hair and smooth olive skin.

Finnick gently prods at Felix's shoulder, softly murmuring, "Wake up, kiddo, you have a visitor."

He stirs slightly and groans, realizing the weight of the little girl against him, and groaning. "Tali, you were supposed to wake me up."

Finnick swoops the five-year-old into his arms and leans her against his shoulder. "Did you have a good day at school?" he whispers.

Talia rubs the sleep from her eyes, "Daddy!" she screeches happily.

_Daddy! _Since when?

That's when I see the golden ring wrapped around Finnick's finger, and a sloppy, bemused look on Felix's face.

Oh._ "Daddy"_

Felix scruffs Talia's hair and steps off the couch. He leads me away, grabbing a couple books. "So, besides Geometry, Art, and AP Lit, you've also got Chem, US History, and Psychology. Actually, that one was easy - we're in the same class."

Man, I must be really lonely if that thought actually comforts me.

"What happened?" I ask, "I don't really remember anything, Felix."

He rubs his arm awkwardly, "I made them leave." Felix then adds quickly, "Not because I condone what they did, but because I can't let Cato get into any trouble this semester. My only real opportunity to pay for college depends on our team making state, and I really, really need this, Clove."

I hate that I pity him, that I'd go along with his line of thought just for a string of pretty words.

"Nero says you never knew, that you didn't know you were leaving us until it was too late."

That doesn't change anything.

Felix shakes his head, "It changes everything, H."

I look up. Apparently I spoke that last line aloud. God knows how many others, too. "I started about a hundred letters, but every time I got to the part where I'd explain, I'd just... I couldn't explain. I can't fix this, so why bother trying?"

"Tell you what, I am going to take you under my wing, and in a few weeks, you and the guys will be good as new."

"Felix," I argue.

He leans back, smirking slightly, "Not exactly in the position to be turning down friends, Clove."

That slimy son of a-

Felix's smirk falls from his face, eying the bandage with concern, "Does it hurt? Looks pretty nasty, you know."

"Thanks for noticing. Bye, Fixy," I groan, shuffling all the textbooks into my arms.

"I won't give up," he prods.

I'm tired, so tired of fighting. I've known this day was coming for months and there is no use in avoiding the inevitable. I'm Clove Holloway, and once upon a time, I had a sister, friends, something to fight for. But now, now, I'm a stranded traveler, and sometimes I can't make it alone.

Stuck somewhere between defiance and desperation, I reply, "Okay."

"Good," he replies, grinning. Then, brushing a layer of snow off my jacket, and before I have a chance to refuse, Felix adds, "Let me walk you home."

* * *

Most of the snow has turned to slush. Today is considerably warmer, but a cloud of fog still lines the skies. Nero and I are poured over my geometry book - he's making his second attempting to teach me the difference between a square and a rhombus.

I'd take Algebra forever if I had the chance.

"Oi, Elroy!" Felix jeers sharply across the quad. I look up to find that Cato's eyes are strained with impatience. His green and white varsity jacket - apparently a favorite of his as Felix is comfortably bundled up in a black Aero hoodie - is fastened up to the last button. He must be really cold.

Cato trails over hesitantly. He rubs at his eyes subconsciously, looking overwhelmed and under-slept, "What do you want, Felix?"

Felix roots through his backpack and then throws a couple boxes of Sudafed at the blonde, "Finny wanted you to have these. Didn't realize you have a cold. No wonder you look like shit."

To his credit, Cato doesn't react as strongly as he would have a few years ago. That's when it really dawns on me that they're all practically strangers to me now. I don't know if Cato still likes M&Ms, or if Rush Hour is still his favorite movie. Does he still love Blink-182, or is he more of a Kanye West sort of guy?

Cato stands ominously for a minute, staring at the red boxes, before hurtling them into the wall with a snarl. "Tell Finnick he can go fuck himself," he seethes.

Felix quirks up an eyebrow, and makes a face, turning away, "He's your brother, man."

Cato's blue eyes narrow, "Yeah, and you sure as hell don't mind be being a leech and adding another mouth to feed to his fucking brood. So just mind your own business."

Nero's still buried in my textbook, growing frustrated as he flips through the glossary, "Hey, Cato, what the hell is the difference between a rhombus and a square?"

"Squares have four right angles," the blonde replies offhandedly, still shooting daggers at Felix. "All squares are rhombuses, but not all rhombuses are squares."

Nero thrusts the textbook back to me victoriously, "Knew it was a trick question. Thanks, C."

"Practice is at three. Don't be late," Felix warns Cato as he picks up his stuff. He rolls his eyes as Cato bolts angrily in the other direction.

"You normally do something when this happens?" I ask Nero.

Testosterone has done neither of them favors.

He runs a hand through his chestnut hair, "Ever since Finnick and Annie got married, there's been mile-high resentment between the both of em. It's not even really Fix's fault. Annie and Felix have always been a packaged deal, she's made that clear from day one, but Cato is possessive of Finnick. It's hard to see your brother become someone else's brother, especially if that person is the person you've had grudge against since little league."

The thought of our former bedraggled little league coach doing anything to keep her and her kid brother safe inspires admiration, makes me miss my sister just that much more, but I don't envy Annie and Felix, not for a second, not at all.

The bell begins to ring in the distance. Nero picks up his things, "Uh, hey, Clove? You might want to stop by class 100 over lunch."

And he's gone before I can ask why.

* * *

So apparently class 100 is not in the 100 building. Thanks for your help, Nero. Half my lunch period is already over and I've only now managed to find this place - which, to be honest, I'm not really sure what it's supposed to be.

I slip into the empty room, where the desks have been arranged into a circle, and take a seat. As I stare into the center between the collective of desks, I begin to wonder if maybe they host toastmasters in this room. Maybe it's the Catholic Student Union's confessional circle. Hell, maybe it's an extra theater lecture hall.

Nelly was always the best actress. She'd pull off these precocious little tantrums and have any idiot eating out of the palm of her hand. Brat.

I guess it doesn't...

"Kid, you shouldn't be sleeping, especially by the looks of that bandage."

"That's a myth..." I yawn, my eyes blinking open slowly.

"Myth or not, lunch is almost over."

I wipe at my eyes trying to remember why I'm here, and then run a hand through my hair. What the hell was the point of this wild goose chase again, Ne-

My eyes catch a familiar pair of green as I stand up and my throat tightens immediately. Oh god, oh, oh, "Gloss?" I rasp.

"Lo, you're all grown up," he breathes, a smile breaking onto his face. I latch myself onto the golden-blonde immediately.

He squeezes me back a little too tightly, and I must have missed it a time or two, because I don't know what he's doing here at Bellows Free Academy. So, I don't ask questions, I just bury myself against his chest, because if there is one person in the world I can always count, it's Gloss.

Gloss tips up my chin, "Hey, hey, since when does Clove Holloway cry?" he murmurs.

I shake my head, embarrassed, "I saw Nelly's garden."

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

It is.

And then I realize that Gloss must have comes to terms with this a long time ago. He's older now, 26, and I'm sure he knows, knows that most missing children that aren't found within 72 hours are usually dead, but I refuse for Nelly to be just another statistic. She's out there somewhere, and I will find her.

The bell rings, breaking our embrace, and Gloss ruffles my hair, before planting a kiss to my forehead.

"You better get to class."

"Okay," I croak, averting my eyes.

"I couldn't take care of you before, Clove, but it's different now, alright?" he promises.

And I believe him. I believe him every time.

* * *

I'd be lying if I didn't say I was a sucker for US History. Something about a group of settlers enduring a long voyage only to find freedom settles well with me. Gives me hope that this voyage to St. Albans isn't in vain, that I'll find something, even if it's-

I'm pretty sure I heard in an old film that history is written by the winners, and I figure that must be true, because my textbook weighs more than most three-year-old kids.

Luckily (unluckily?) for me, I've got a top locker, which means I don't have to stoop to my knees to open it. However, it also means I have stand on my tiptoes like some sixth grader who got lost looking for the junior high.

I turn to the left, looking for my psychology lecture hall, when I bump into one of the teachers. "Are you Clove?"

"Um, yeah, are you Mister Crane?"

"Indeed, but unfortunately, Miss Holloway, you've been requested in the principle's office." He hands me the dreadful pink slip, instantly sentencing me to premature death.

"Great..." I mutter.

I'm never going to make it through a full day of school am I?

Luckily (yeah, luckily, ha), I know exactly where the principal's office is. As I muddle down the stairs and out into daylight, I'm at least able to appreciate the sun's reappearance in my day-to-day life.

I knock on the door and am beckoned in.

"Miss Holloway, close the door behind you."

I shakily oblige, and sit down. The aura in this room is like ice in my veins, and I've always been more partial to the sun. "As I've told Officer Ironus, there are reports from a concerned classmate of yours that you and Officer Ironus were in a rather compromising position in one of the classrooms earlier this afternoon."

What.

He continues, without even a taking a breath, "As a school official, it is our duty to protect our students, and I'm sure you can imagine why we address these circumstances as soon as they come to our attention. We certainly wouldn't want one of our officers to be taking advantage of our students, especially in a sexually exploitative manner."

_What._

I see Gloss in the window talking to one of the other school administrators. A hard look flashes across his face.

A flash of confusion must flicker across my face, because the principal looks at me, "Don't be afraid, Miss Holloway, he can't hurt you anymore."

What. the. fuck.

* * *

**AN** - As you can see, I'm still setting up the foundation for this story. Cato will make a stronger appearance in the next chapter, promise. There will be more canon characters, don't worry, but they'll show up in a variety of different roles.

**Please review.** I've only just picked up the story again and writing isn't fun without feedback.


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